


the things you said

by westernredcedar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU- meet in a different way, Angst, Blacking Out, Casual Sex, F/M, Homophobia, Jack pov, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Prescription Drug Abuse, Sex while impaired by alcohol/drugs, Slurs, alcohol use, characters you love acting poorly, ends hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: Sometimes, when things get really hard and it's late at night and he can't sleep, Jack thinks his life might be better without hockey, that maybe if he gave it all up and became a firefighter or a gardener or a chef, if he left the ice forever, maybe then he wouldn’t need to have that bottle of pills in his bag anymore.But every time he’s back on the ice, he remembers. This is the only place where his life actually makes any sense.Or, the story of three times Jack Zimmermann meets Eric Bittle.





	1. nineteen

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017) collection. 



> Prompt: AU where Jack and Bitty knew each other in their younger years while both struggling with addiction and mental illness, and find each other again years later as completely changed people.
> 
> Notes: A challenge with writing any “they met earlier” fic is age difference. Since this is already an AU, I just went ahead and reduced their age spread in this fic to two years difference instead of five. Nonetheless, Eric is seventeen the first time they get together. There is self-medicating drug and alcohol use to the point of blacking out, and poor decisions around intimacy that go along with that.
> 
> Thank you to my two wonderful betas, wrathofthestag and sellahdor!!
> 
> Recently added: **Amazing art by omgpieplease in chapter one. Thank you, Matt!!**

*

Jack Zimmermann is nineteen years old. He’s one of the top Junior hockey players in Canada. Everyone expects him to go early in the draft a few months from now. His father is a Stanley Cup champion and a beloved ambassador for the sport who wholeheartedly supports Jack in every step of his career. His mother just got nominated for an Emmy. Two nights ago a girl offered to such his dick in a bar bathroom, and that happens to him often enough that he wasn’t even tempted to say yes. Everything in his life is stretched out before him, a moving walkway of success that he just needs to step onto and ride.

He’s got four different anxiety meds in his luggage, and his fingernails have left deep gouges in his palms from where he’s gripped hard enough to feel something.

*

“Have you spoken to Bakken yet, Jack? The goalie coach? He’s an old teammate of mine from Juniors and he can definitely be a resource for you. Maybe introduce you to some of the guys I don’t know.”

“Not yet, Papa. We haven’t met any of the coaches. I just arrived.”

“Well, make sure you do. He’s connected at a lot of levels.”

“ _Ouais_ , Papa. I will.”

Jack is unpacking his duffel for the week-long camp in Vancouver. Top prospects from all over the provinces are here. The hotel room is huge and cold, and his roommate hasn’t arrived yet. Jack takes the bed closest to the door, and stashes his gear right where he can get to it, by the headboard. He eyes the evacuation map on the back of the door, and quickly plots out his escape route, committing it to memory. He hates being this high up, on the 14th floor.

His father is still speaking. “This is a great opportunity for you, Jack. I know you’ll get everything out of it that you can.”

“I promise.”

“Call me later, after you are back from the first skate. I’d like to hear how it went.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Keep those eyes up. And pay attention to your left side.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let yourself down.”

“I won’t.”

Jack ends the call. His breath hitches and the tightness in his chest starts to press in just enough to form a painful knot right where he knows his heart must be. 

As he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom, he pops half a Lorazepam, just enough to take the edge off. He has to be at his best. He promised.

*

A half hour later, Jack is reclined on his bed and enjoying the cool trickle of dullness in his veins, when a loud voice jolts him back up. Someone busts in the through the door.

“Yeah, I’m at my room.” The large kid in the doorway is on his phone, but eyeing Jack as he pulls out his keycard and lets the door slam behind him. “Shit. Gotta meet the roomie now. See you in five?”

Jack sits up on the edge of his bed. The kid is very tall, with long limbs and a thick mop of curly brown hair.

“Hey, I’m Kyle.” He sticks out his hand, right in Jack’s face. Jack shakes it.

“Jack.”

Jack can see the wheels turning as Kyle looks at him, hard. Then, the light bulb. 

“Oh, holy shit! You’re Bob Zimmermann’s kid, right? Oh _fuck_. Figures I would get you as a roommate. Damn. Your dad is a legend, dude.” 

Jack never knows what to say to that. He tries, “Thanks.”

“Fuck, so unfair. I mean, no offense, but what did you actually have to do to get here? Breathe?” Kyle laughs, and tosses his suitcase and backpack onto the other bed, not even looking at Jack.

The knot in Jack’s chest contracts hard, and he can feel a line of sweat break out on the back of his neck. He tries to smile and laugh it off, but that only makes the knot pull tighter.

Kyle is haphazardly throwing clothes into the dresser drawers. “So Zimmermann, I’m meeting up with a couple of guys down in the lobby in a minute. You want to join?”

“Don’t we have to get to the arena?” Jack reaches for the binder on his night stand that has the full schedule for the week. He’s sure the bus leaves in fifteen minutes for a late afternoon skate.

“Nah, downstairs they told us there’s some figure skating thing wrapping up right now that ran long, and our schedule is pushed by an hour.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“I think I’ll stay here.”

Kyle gives him a look that Jack can only interpret as _of course you will, asshole_. What he says is, “Suit yourself.” 

After the door slams behind Kyle, Jack counts to twenty and then walks to the bathroom and swallows the other half of the Lorazepam. 

*

**Jack** _Hey, Kenny. Having to wait for some figure skaters to get off the ice. Everything's delayed for an hour._

**Parse** _What kind of bullshit is that?_

**Jack** _Vancouver bullshit._

**Parse** _Heh. How’s everything else?_

**Jack** _My room is really cold._

**Parse** _Here’s an idea, genius. Turn up the heat._

**Jack** _Right. Found the controls. I forgot you could do that in a hotel._

**Parse** _Damn, you get invited to one lousy camp by yourself and look what happens._

Jack knows he’s trying, but it’s been a long, awkward month since Jack got the invite to Vancouver and Kent didn’t. 

**Jack** _Sorry, Kenny._

**Parse** _Watch your back or everyone there will realize you’re nothing without me, Zimms._

Jack’s chest clenches, even through the gentle haze of the Lorazepam. 

**Jack** _Wish you were here._

**Parse** _I bet._

*

Jack spends the next hour flipping through the binder of materials for the week, not taking a word of it in, and then watching the last half of an old episode of M*A*S*H. He’s just starting to pull together his gear bag when he hears the beep of the card reader and Kyle and two other guys come barreling into the room. 

“Jack fucking Zimmermann, get your ass movin’! Bus is out there, loading up. Word is there’s gonna be at least twelve scouts in the house, and that’s just for this warm-up!” 

Kyle’s voice is particularly loud, and shatters right through Jack’s calm. The two other guys have gear bags slung over their shoulders. One of them has earbuds in and is bopping to an unheard beat, and the second is staring at Jack like he’s an exhibit at a museum. 

Jack grabs his hoodie and his bag, and follows them out into the hall. The pressure in his chest is a steady and strong ache. The door is about to shut behind him, but he jams his foot in to stop it. 

“I forgot something. Just a minute.”

Jack dashes to the bathroom and grabs a bottle of meds from the top of his toiletries bag, then stuffs it down to the bottom of his gear, into his extra socks. Just in case. 

*

It’s chaos when they get to the arena. The figure skating crowd is trickling out and a number of skaters are still finishing up in the locker room when the bus full of hockey players unloads. There’s a bit of a scramble that Jack avoids by staying in the bus for as long as possible, and then darting into the first open stall he finds once he’s inside. He can hear one of the program organizers (Dave? David?) on his phone, obviously trying to find someone else to blame for this scheduling mess. 

“Fuck. Those fruits left their damn fairy dust all over everything.” 

Jack looks up just enough to see that it is one of Kyle’s friends, the huge one with the earbuds, holding up what looks to be two sequins on his finger tip. 

Jack glances quickly over to the corner where a couple of the figure skaters are still clearing their gear out of stalls. It’s clear from their silence and the looks pinging between them that they heard him loud and clear.

“You’re a fucking fairy, Baz,” Kyle says, and he starts a bit of a shoving match that gets loud enough that one of the coaches has to come in and blow his whistle to calm them down. 

Jack just keeps his head down and gets geared up (he’s definitely still a little stoned, more than he wants to be at this point). When he looks back to the corner a few minutes later, all of the figure skaters have gone. 

*

Jack is ready before almost anyone else, but he’s heavy-headed and unfocused and not in any mood to banter with strangers. He grabs his phone and ducks out into a side corridor, just down from the locker room, loping along on his skates. He needs something to help ground him. 

She picks up after five rings.

“Jack! Honey!” 

“Maman. Hi.”

His mother’s voice is so light; she sounds like sunshine. Jack lets his entire body sag into the cinder block wall of the hallway.

“I just have a few minutes before I’m called back, Jack. I’m surprised to hear from you. Isn’t it getting a little late for you to call?” 

Jack’s mother has been in Los Angeles for three months on a shoot. 

“I’m in Vancouver, Maman. Remember?”

“Oh that’s right! I completely forgot, honey. So we’re in the same time zone for a few days?” 

In the background, Jack can hear loud banging and a voice saying something like, “To the left, Alicia.” 

“You sound busy, Maman.”

“This is quite a production, Jack. I wish you could see this set today! I’m getting a touch up on my makeup while they reset cameras. But I have a moment. How’s Vancouver?”

_Hard and lonely and I need you,_ Jack doesn’t say. 

“Fine, I guess. The camp is just starting. We have a short skate in a few minutes.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Jack can hear muffled murmurings and the scrape of something against the phone. 

“Sorry, Jack. I missed that. Paul came over to give me a note. Say again?”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh good! I’m so glad. Is Kent with you?”

“No, he’s not.”

Another long pause, loud murmurs. Jack can feel the shaking start in his knees, so he crouches down so his legs don’t give way. 

“Shoot, honey. I have to go. I’m so sorry. Let's talk again tomorrow, okay? While you are a west coaster?”

Jack can hear her smile. 

“Sure, Maman.”

“I love you, honey.”

The call disconnects before Jack can say it back. He lets his head hang down, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and he can’t think of anything but the bottle of pills resting in his gear bag. 

*

It takes about five minutes for the wave to pass over him, until he can catch his breath again and remember that he’s supposed to be out on the ice and that he can’t blow this. The only thing that can calm him as well as the Benzos is skating. He should be out there. Jack pulls himself up and starts off down the hallway.

He must have gotten turned around, though, because he strides purposefully around the next corner and right into a dead end. Where there’s another person. 

It’s one of the figure skating kids, and he looks like a cornered fox. The kid is standing with his back to the wall, his palms pressed against the cinder blocks. He has impossibly huge eyes that are staring at Jack with what Jack can only describe as terror. 

Jack pulls himself to a stop, suddenly really aware of how out of it he still is and how tall he is on his skates. 

“Hey, sorry,” Jack stutters out. 

“It’s all right,” the kid says. His voice has a bit of a drawl.

“I didn’t know anyone was down here.”

The kid relaxes his grip on the wall a fraction. “You one of the hockey players?”

It’s a ridiculous question, seeing as how Jack is fully geared up and holding a hockey stick. “Yeah. I am. I think I got turned around on the way to the rink.” The kid has a golden cap of curls, Jack notices. 

“Oh.” The kid looks confused. “That wasn’t you on the phone just now?”

_Oh god._ Jack’s heart stutters. “I...yeah. No. I was just…”

The kid waves off Jack’s muttering. “I didn’t listen in, I swear. But…,” the kid gets a little worried crease between his big eyes, “...you okay?”

Jack can feel his face heat with embarrassment. “Yeah.”

The kid nods and looks like he’s working up the courage to say something more. 

Jack quickly clears his throat, trying to shake off the last of the his fog. “So why are you hiding down here?”

Now it’s the kid’s turn to blush crimson. Jack wishes he could unsay that word. _Hiding_. “Oh, I left my skates in the locker room and I was just… waiting for it to clear out.”

Jack thinks about Kyle and Baz and sequins, then nods. “You want me to go see if it’s empty in there?”

The kid shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll just wait. You go on along. Don’t be late to your… thing.”

Jack nods. It feels like he should say something more, but he has no idea what. The kid meets his gaze for just a little too long (really compelling eyes, huge and brown), until Jack can’t take it and has to look away. He turns around and walks off down the hallway without looking back. 

Behind him, he thinks he hears the kid mutter _“Oh Lord Almighty. What the hell?”_ just before he’s too far away to hear anything more.

*

Cool, flat nothingness- the ice. 

Jack glides out onto the fresh surface, onto the one place where he knows exactly who he is and what he can do, and the rest of the world falls away. The final dregs of his drifty drug haze dissipate as he lets himself build up speed, ignoring all of the others and finding his own perfect track around the edge by the boards.

Sometimes, when things get really hard and it's late at night and he can't sleep, Jack thinks his life might be better without hockey, that maybe if he gave it all up and became a firefighter or a gardener or a chef, if he left the ice forever, maybe then he wouldn’t need to have that bottle of pills in his bag anymore. 

But every time he’s back on the ice, he remembers. This is the only place where his life actually makes any sense. 

*

The two hours pass quickly: speed drills, passing drills, shooting drills, and then some dizzying stick-handling drills that Jack is sure he will dream about later (if he’s lucky enough to get any sleep). 

He knows quite a few of the other guys from around the league, but no one is attending the camp who Jack considers to be a _friend_. He wonders again how different this week would feel if Kenny was there with him. 

Back in the locker room, after, Kyle nudges up to Jack as he pulls off his pads. 

“Sweet shit out there, Zimmermann.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Jack had been impressed by Kyle’s shooting, hard and accurate. 

“You’re coming to dinner with me and the guys.”

“Oh…” Jack had been planning to go back to the hotel room to order a sandwich from room service. 

“We’re just gonna chow down in the hotel restaurant. Looks decent. Maybe go out after.” 

Jack thinks for a moment about the long night alone in his room, if Kyle’s going out. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

“Cool, bro.” Kyle heads back to his own stall, elbowing the other guy (Baz, right?) as he walks past. 

It takes a minute to hit. Jack sits down and starts to pull off his underarmor, think about his routine for the morning, and then suddenly his body is flooded with panic. His heart rate takes off like a rocket, his neck starts to sweat and his hands begin to shake. He’s just agreed to have dinner with strangers, two of whom he’s already decided he really doesn’t like. His breath shallows. He can’t have this happen here, right in front of everybody. That thought only makes it worse.

Desperate, Jack grapples into the bottom of his gear bag and finds the bottle he stashed earlier. When he gets the label into the light he can see it’s his Xanax. (He’s had so many doctors over the years, and they’ve all prescribed him something.) He opens the bottle, palms one inside the bag, and then sneaks it to his mouth as he pretends to yawn and stretch. 

Just getting the pill swallowed makes his heart rate drop. Fine. He’s fine.

*

The pill has Jack entirely chilled out in a matter of minutes. On the bus, he just leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, the past few hours drifting away on a sea of not giving a shit. 

Jack knows how to manage himself on meds now. Low enough dose, he knows he’ll remember what he’s doing and where he is, with a low probability of being called out. He’s made the mistake of trying to function on a higher dose in public before, and failed, ended up being snuck home from a team birthday party by Kenny to sleep it off- Jack has no memory of the entire night. He is nothing if not meticulous, even in this.

Jack’s aware he’s slow getting out of the bus though, and when he says, “See ya,” to a couple of the guys he knows as they walk into the hotel, he can feel the cement in his tongue.

He takes a quick, cold shower. When he comes out, he’s a little more in control. Kyle has changed into jeans and a t-shirt and is tapping at his phone. When he sees Jack is ready, he hops up.

“Dinner, Zimmermann,” Kyle says. Then, “Damn, you look like you need to eat or something.”

Jack just nods. 

*

Dinner passes in a haze. Jack makes excuses for himself about being tired, and the time change, and his dinner companions seem to buy it.

The hotel restaurant is set up like a diner, with big booths and a huge menu. Jack struggles to focus on it, and for ease just orders a burger. 

Kyle’s friends are called Baz and Elvie. Jack assumes these are hockey nicknames, but he doesn’t have it in him to ask to be sure. 

He manages to tune out the majority of the conversation, which seems to be mostly replaying the afternoon session, trying to guess who the scouts are looking at, and then chirping each other about hook-ups and girlfriends. Jack just works on his food and tries to look interested. 

Baz orders a pitcher of beer, and they pour a pint for Jack. He sips it, being careful not to drink too much and throw off the fine balance he has achieved of not caring about anything, yet still remaining conscious.

Jack doesn’t follow any particular thread of conversation until he hears Elvie say, under his breath and into his beer, “Don’t look now, but holy shit, there are some of those fancy-assed figure skating fags.”

Jack turns around in the booth to look. There are four of them, sitting at a booth several tables away, but all Jack can focus on when he looks is a curly shock of golden hair. The kid from the hallway. _My blond friend_ , Jack’s sluggish brain thinks, and he doesn’t have the will to correct it.

“Jesus, Zimmermann, I said _don’t_ look.”

“Whenever I see a bunch of those fancy fags, I always wonder which one sucks the best cock,” Baz says, and Kyle snickers.

“Why? You gonna try and get some, bro?”

“Nah, I was wonderin’ for you.” 

“Aww, shit, dude…”

There’s a loud sound, a bang and a rattle, that jolts Jack more awake and alert. It takes his brain a few seconds to catch up and realize that his own hand aches, and that it aches because he has slammed it down on to the table, hard. His dinner-mates are all frozen and staring at him.

“What the fuck, Zimmermann?”

“Sorry.” Jack shakes his head to try and clear it. “Sorry.”

“Almost spilled my brew, dude.”

“Sorry.”

The guys mutter some more and wipe up a couple of spills, but when they start talking again, they don’t mention the figure skaters any more. 

Jack takes a deep gulp of his beer and peeks back over his shoulder to see if the skaters are still there. They are.

*

After another round of beers (Jack finishes his first and Baz pours him a second), the other three guys start to pull on jackets and hoodies and make ready to leave. 

“We’re gonna check out a club Elvie heard was pretty fuckin’ hot,” Kyle says. “You coming?”

Jack shakes his head. “What about curfew.”

Kyle waves a hand dismissively. “We’ll make it. And if we don’t, you’re not gonna rat us out, are you?” 

Jack can’t pull his thoughts together fast enough to reply with more than a shrug. Their harried waitress hurries over with the bill. Kyle doesn’t stop winding his scarf around his neck as he nods towards it. 

“You'll get dinner, right Zimmermann? I mean, your dad is fucking loaded, yeah?”

They grab their shit and walk out. Jack just watches them go.

*

Jack sits at the booth by himself for a while, nursing his beer and fighting the fatigue that the drug has forced into his veins. He knows his own metabolism, knows the effects of the Xanax should have peaked about twenty minutes ago, and that if he wants to stay numb, he either needs to go to sleep, or keep drinking. 

He keeps drinking. 

His phone buzzes, eventually, just after the waitress brings back his credit card and receipt. It’s Kenny.

**Parse** _Bedtime?_

Jack focuses hard on his fingers to get them to cooperate with texting. 

**Jack** _Not yet. Dinner with roommate._

**Parse** _Your new best friend?_

**Jack** _He’s an asshole._

**Parse** _Whoa. Strong words, Jack Zimmermann._

Jack looks over his shoulder. One of the figure skaters is gone, but the blond and two of the other guys are still leaned in at the booth, talking and laughing. Jack’s heart gives a little flutter through the sludge of his emotions. 

**Jack** _There’s other guys I could hang with, but I’m probably going up to sleep. I’m kind of fucked up._

**Parse** _Don’t waste a good fucked up on sleep, Zimms. Just pretend I’m there and forcing your sorry ass to have a good time._

**Jack** _If you were here, I would be having a good time._

**Parse** _Aww, shit. That’s kind of sweet, Zimms. You are fucked up, aren’t you?_

Jack takes a long breath and realizes he’s smiling at his own phone. 

**Jack** _Night, Kenny._

**Parse** _Do things I would do, Zimms._

Jack stares at the table surface. It’s an intricate imitation wood grain, and his brain gets caught up in the spirals, just rolling and riding the pattern for a few minutes, finding an edge of calm again. 

When he comes back to himself, he signals to the waitress, orders a black coffee, and then tries not to overthink his next move. He carries his beer and his coffee across the restaurant to where the figure skaters are still lingering. 

One of them sees him coming and nudges the others. When the blond turns and sees him, he leans in and whispers something to his companions, then smiles back at Jack and waves him over. 

“Hey there. Fancy meeting you here,” the kid says, with the same lilt as at the arena, but far more cheerful. Jack isn’t great at identifying regional American accents, but he thinks maybe Southern?

“Saw you over here.” Jack hopes he’s not slurring too hard. The kid’s big eyes are on him again, like a spotlight. 

“Yes, indeed. Here I am,” the kid says, after a moment’s hesitation, which makes Jack pretty sure he is slurring. 

One of the other guys pipes up and says, “You sitting down?”

Jack honestly hadn’t thought that far, but he sets down his beverages and pulls a chair over the end of the booth and sits. 

The skaters are all looking at each other, and Jack doesn’t know what to say. Finally, one of them ventures, “I’m Brian. What’s your name?”

Jack isn’t sure why he says, “Laurent,” instead of Jack, but he does. 

“Nice to meet you, Laurent,” the kid says. He pronounces Jack’s name long and drawn out, like it has five more vowels than it does. “I’m Eric. That’s Colin.” 

Eric. Jack lets his name rattle around in his brain. Eric. Eric.

“You play hockey, right?” Brian asks. 

“Yeah. I do.” Jack sips his coffee.

The three guys exchange glances again, and seem to be waiting for something more. Jack stares back at them. 

“Well, we can be dang sure this boy doesn’t go out for speech and debate,” Eric says with a grin. Jack’s stomach does a pleasant little roll at the chirp. 

“No,” Jack slurs back. “I’m more of a spoken word poet.” 

The table all giggles at that, and then conversation is easy.

*

At some point (while Eric is animatedly telling Jack the details of the skating circuit schedule while he sips his beer), Colin and Brian make their excuses and slip out of the booth, giving Eric little pats on the head as they go.

“Be good, Bittle,” Colin says, and winks. 

As they retreat, Jack leans over and whispers to Eric, “They aren’t gonna go hook up, are they?”

“Oh Lord, hockey boy, stop makin’ assumptions. Not all figure skaters are gay, you know.” Eric pulls back and his stern expression hits Jack right in the gut. But then his face softens and he looks off after his friends. “But Christ, they probably are. Oh hell, that’s not gonna end well for anyone.” 

Eric laughs and then launches into a rambling story about… something. Jack can’t really follow it, but he likes listening to Eric talk. He just keeps drinking and nodding and trying to keep himself upright.

It’s somewhere in the middle of this dizzying conversation that Jack realizes he has screwed up. He’s not sobering up the way he should. He can feel his self-control slipping away and it occurs to some still-functioning part of his brain that he’s forgotten to account for the Lorazepam earlier, that he’s never actually taken those two pills so close together before, and definitely not with an alcohol kicker. 

Eric is still talking, something about spins? A bubbling thought, something scary, makes it way up through Jack’s sedation, desperate to be heard. 

“You know, those guys I ate dinner with were calling all of you fags.”

Eric stops talking and freezes, big eyes wide, the terror back in his expression. “Pardon me?”

Jack can’t stop to explain. He has to go on. “I kept thinking what a chicken I was, cause I didn’t say anything back. I just let them spout their shit and think I was going along.”

Eric is very still and staring at Jack. He swallows hard. “You weren’t?”

Jack inches his hand away from his beer glass until his pinky finger is pressed against Eric’s forearm where he’s leaning on the table. “No.”

Eric looks at Jack’s fingers for a long moment. “I’m not...I haven’t…” He stops and licks his lips, very slowly. “You know, Laurent, I don’t think you know what you’re doin’.”

Jack doesn’t look away. “I don’t.”

It takes a moment, but then Eric pulls his arm back. “I think you should have more coffee, honey.”

Suddenly Jack is so tired that he almost puts his head down on the table to get some rest. 

“Um, Laurent? What’s your room number? Um, why don’t I help get you there?” 

Jack realizes that his head _is_ actually on the table. Shit. He lifts himself up and blinks hard, trying to clear his vision, salvage the moment. “So, what’s your dad like?”

Eric is just a blur. “He’s quite a piece of work, actually, but I don’t think we should talk about that right now.”

“Okay. I hate my roommate. He called you a fag.”

“That’s not a nice word, hon.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Let’s get you up.”

Jack hasn’t really been able to judge how tall Eric is until the kid is trying to hold him up and Jack is grabbing on to his shoulders like a life raft. 

“You’re a good size for leaning,” Jack says. Eric smells nice, too.

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Eric replies, and then Jack doesn’t remember for a while.

*

The next thing Jack is aware of, they are on an elevator. He knows there’s something important he meant to tell Eric before, but he can’t really remember what it was. But maybe his mouth remembers, because it’s talking.

“People offer to suck my dick all the time, you know.”

“Oh? Do they?” Jack thinks he’s probably not a great judge at the moment, but Eric’s voice sounds really high-pitched.

“But here’s what’s different. This time, _I’m_ gonna suck _your_ dick.” Yes, that was it.

“Oh Lord, let's get you to the room, honey. Just keep your voice down.”

*

The next flash of awareness Jack has, and he’s on a bed, and it’s not his bed at home. His shirt is somewhere else and he’s kissing something. Someone. Eric? Yes, the kid. Eric. Right. On his chest, where his shirt is also missing.

Jack inhales hard and sits up. Eric is laid out beneath him, eyes closed, chest and throat flushed deep red. He has no idea how they’ve gotten here.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Jack says, although he’s not sure if the words come out in that order or not. Eric’s eyes open, wide. “We’re gonna have sex now, okay?” He gets really close to Eric’s face, to be sure he hears him.

Eric presses up and kisses him on the mouth, and a tiny voice in Jack’s brain reminds him he’s never actually kissed another man before, only imagined it a thousand times while some girl is going down on him and he has his eyes shut tight. 

Jack fumbles around with the elastic of Eric’s underwear while their kiss goes on and Eric wraps a leg around Jack’s back and, _fuck_ , he’s so exhausted. 

After that, Jack remembers hot skin under his hands and his lips, and the ache of his jaw, and the salty taste of come at the back of his throat, but then there’s nothing more.

*

Jack wakes up the next morning in his own hotel room, the alarm blaring it’s warning that they have an hour until the bus leaves for the arena. 

His entire body is concrete.

He has no memory of getting back to his room. 

Jack hasn’t blacked out in three months. He thought he had this beat. 

Kyle moans from the bed next to him. “What a night, bro. Sorry you missed it. You must have knocked out early, eh?”

Jack tries to move his mouth. Eventually, it works. “Why do you say that?”

“You were sound asleep when I got back, Zimmermann. You sleep like the goddamn dead, you know.”

Jack’s phone buzzes and he has to force himself roll over and check it. 

**Papa** _Heard the Pens and Habs have scouts there today. Thought of a couple more things for you to work on. Call me._

Jack lets his head fall back onto the mattress.

*

Before he gets on the bus, Jack stops at the desk in the lobby to ask, but they won’t tell him if anyone named Eric is still checked in. The concierge tells him the figure skaters finished their events yesterday, and that as far as she knows, they’d all left together on an early shuttle to the airport. 

Jack thanks her. As he walks to the bus, all he can think about is the bottle of pills in his gear bag.

*


	2. twenty-three

*

Jack Zimmermann is twenty-three years old. He’s been sober for three years, two months (with one major relapse, but that was almost two years in the past). He’s starting his junior year as the captain of the Samwell University Men’s Hockey Team, and has realistic hopes that they might make it to the playoffs this spring. His parents text him every day from Montreal, just to make sure he’s alive. His teammates either tolerate him or are actually fond of him, and he doesn't investigate too closely so he can pretend to not know which is which.

This morning, he woke up with a girl in his bed whose name he could only sort of remember (Emma, Ella, one of those), and left her a note about going out for a run and that maybe he’d see her sometime (he won’t). He can’t remember, even a few hours later, exactly what she looks like, but knows with an iron certainty that she’s the fifty-fourth person he’s had sex with since starting at Samwell, because his sober mind loves to keep track of shit like that. He knows he’s been chasing something intangible, something he hasn’t come close to finding.

None of this is what he’s planned, or what he wants it to be. But it is.

*

“We going to lunch, brah?” Shitty Knight, Jack’s team- and house-mate, shouts from the kitchen as Jack rolls back in after his morning out.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack says, stopping in the doorway. Shitty’s got his feet up on the table and is scrolling around on his phone. 

“A perfectly lovely girl I’ve never seen before snuck out of here about a hour ago. Looked pretty pissed off. You know anything about that?”

“You say anything to her?”

Shitty shrugs. “I just wanted her to be realistic.”

Jack wanders to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottled smoothie, cracks the cap. “I’ll text her later.”

“Will you, though?” Shitty says, eyebrow raised. 

Jack doesn’t answer. Shitty’s been on to him since last winter, gently prodding him to consider not being a heartless machine. Jack knows he’s right, but he’s honestly at a loss. Without the drugs, the only things keeping him together are hockey and not letting himself care too much about anything else. 

“I need to get out of my running clothes, but then I’m hungry when you are,” Jack says, after he drains the smoothie.

*

Jack’s phone buzzes as he and Shitty meander their way through the late August sunshine, towards the campus snack bar. Jack pulls out his phone to check.

“Pissed-off girl?” Shitty asks. “Forcing you to be a gentleman?”

Jack shakes his head. “Maman.” 

Shitty rolls his eyes.

 **Maman** _I’m seeing Tante Alice later today._

 **Jack** _Tell her thanks for the shirt._

 **Maman** _I told her not to send you any more Habs gear, honey, but she is a menace and cannot be stopped._

 **Jack** _It’s fine._

 **Maman** _You know your father and I don’t care what you want to do after college._

 **Jack** _I know, Maman._

 **Maman** _Love you. Talk to you tomorrow._

Jack stows his phone in his pocket.

“More newbies moving in,” Shitty says, gesturing to a haggard looking father carrying two boxes into one of the freshman dorms. 

The team has already been on campus for two weeks for pre-season practice, but the dorms opened to everyone else yesterday, and freshman orientation starts tomorrow. 

“Shit,” Jack says. “The bookstore will be a packed, and I need to pick up the reading for Cutler’s seminar.”

“That sucks, bro. Let’s eat.”

*

After inhaling calzones with Shitty, they part ways (Shitty towards the Quad, hoping for spontaneous frisbee, Jack to buy his books). The bookstore is packed. Jack’s pulse rate is high and he eyes the exit as he stands in the huge line, plotting his escape if he needs to get out in a hurry. When he makes it out the door, he gulps in air like he’s drowning, hoping no one notices him. 

When he can, he starts walking back towards the Haus, his head down, eager to get out of the crowds of families and back home. He’s just passing Taylor Hall when a voice seeps through his fog.

“Laurent? It’s… Laurent, isn't it?”

Jack slows down and looks around, assuming it's a weird coincidence and the speaker is not talking to him. It takes him a moment, staring at big brown eyes and blond hair (short now, less of a curly mop) to realize that the question was indeed meant for him.

“Hey,” the kid says. He’s holding a big duffle and a small potted plant, and is looking at Jack like he’s seeing a ghost. “Vancouver, remember?”

Jack’s brain rolls through a long flow chart of memory, one that takes him back further than he usually lets himself go. 

His mouth remembers before his brain. “Eric? Figure skater?” 

“Yeah.”

A flurry of images and sensations flood into him (fascination and conversation and warm lips frantic against his and trying to find out anything about the kid for a week after…) and Jack’s stomach leaps up into his throat. 

Eric. Standing here in front of him. Jack’s savvy about the guys he hooks up with now- locals, not students, for example, and never at the Haus; almost half of his fifty-four have been guys. But Eric. God. Jack doesn’t remember much, but he knows he’d never kissed a man before Eric.

What Jack manages to say is, “What are you doing here?”

Eric’s cheeks are very pink. “Oh lord, long story, really. I ripped up my knee real good last winter and looks like I won’t be making it back to the senior level any time soon. So here I am! Time for college, I guess.” The rapid lilt of Eric’s voice pings some deep thing in Jack’s gut. He knows it's impossible that he actually remembers it, but still.

“Sorry,” Jack says. 

“That’s sweet, but I’m okay.” Eric shakes his head a little and goes on. “And what on god’s green earth are you doing here?”

“I’m a junior.”

“Oh? Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They just stare at each other, standing in front of Taylor Hall, and Jack’s heart rate is through the roof. He finally swallows hard, and says, “Need help with that stuff?” He indicates the plant and the bag. 

“Oh, uh…” Eric looks at the objects in his hands like he’s forgotten that they are there. “Well, if you’re offering.” 

He hands Jack the duffel bag, which feels as if it’s filled with rocks. “I’m on East Quad.”

“Lead the way.”

They start off, Eric a few steps ahead of Jack, his pace bouncy and rapid. He talks over his shoulder, and Jack trots faster to catch up. 

“Just said goodbye to my parents. They’re going off on a road trip now, through the Appalachians. They haven’t spent much time this far north. This is my last load. And my mama just bought me this little plant. It’s cute, right?”

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

“I’ll have to remember to water it, though.”

“Yeah.” Jack can’t stop looking at the line of Eric’s neck, at his trim build, willing himself to remember more, wishing he could go back in time and not be such a fuck up.

Eric’s quiet for a moment, looking everywhere but at Jack. “So, um. Do you still play hockey?”

Jack nods again. “Yeah. I’m on the team here.”

“Oh! I’ll have to come to a game sometime!” Eric looks up at him then with a big smile. 

“You should. We’re pretty good.”

“Your dad played professionally, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He did.” Jack’s surprised, because he doesn’t remember talking to Eric about his father’s career. He doesn’t remember talking much at all. “So what happened to your knee?” Jack asks, flinching at the obviousness of his subject change. 

“Lord almighty, it was hell,” Eric starts, rolling his eyes skyward, and then he’s off into a story, and Jack definitely remembers how much he likes listening to Eric talk.

*

Eric’s roommate is there when they arrive in the dorm. He’s a tall kid who is in the midst of tacking NBA posters all over the walls on his side of the room.

“Hey, Joel, looks great!” Eric says brightly, placing the little plant on what must be his desk. 

“Hey, Eric.”

Eric points at Jack where he’s lurking in the doorway, unsure about his welcome. “This here is an old friend of mine, Lau…”

Jack interrupts before Eric can finish. “I’m Jack,” he says as he places the duffel bag down near Eric’s closet. 

“Nice to meet you, man.” 

Jack glances over at Eric, who is frozen stiff, his eyes wide. Shit. The stone in Jack’s chest squeezes tight.

Joel steps down from the chair he was standing on and continues. “Are you two hanging out here for a while, or what? I was about to go get some food.”

“I just ate,” Jack says, “but thanks.”

“I’m good,” Eric says, his jaw tight. 

“I’ll be back in thirty. Nice to meet you, man,” Joel says, grabbing his wallet and key and heading out. 

The door to the room closes behind Joel with a definite click. It’s quiet for a moment, until Eric speaks.

“So.” Eric sits down on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. “Your name isn’t Laurent?” 

Jack shakes his head.

“Why did you lie?”

Jack desperately wishes he had a reason that would explain it. “I was lying about a lot of things back then. Sorry. I’m not like that anymore.” Jack starts back towards the door. He should just go.

“So. It’s… Jack?”

Jack stops. Eric is looking up at him, his brow pulled tight in confusion. 

“Yeah. Jack Laurent Zimmermann. That’s the whole thing.” Jack feels like he’s standing before a judge, waiting for his sentencing. 

After a long appraising stare, Eric says, “Eric Richard Bittle. That’s mine.”

*

Eric follows Jack out of the dorm and, without really talking about it, they just start walking around campus. Eric tells Jack all about the drive up from Georgia, about his last competitions and his most recent visit to Vancouver. Jack listens and responds and occasionally points out campus highlights as they pass by. It's… really nice. There’s a tension floating between them that makes Jack's skin itch a little. The uncertainty starts to feel like a weight under his rib cage, pulling down.

This is not the way Jack does things. 

He doesn’t let himself even consider being attracted to guys at school. He meets his hook-ups, men and women, and they know what the deal is- there’s no talking about life and family and experiences. Jack knows he’s attracted to Eric. Hell, they’ve hooked up before (Jack is pretty sure, probably; the memory is so blurred). So he’s not sure what to make of the fact that they are just hanging out together with no agenda, without even an excuse. Jack’s only tried combining friendship and sex once, and it had ended with Jack in rehab and Kenny on the other side of the continent. He can’t do that again.

This doesn’t feel wrong though. The little weight in his chest gets heavier.

*

“This is my place.” Jack has walked them to the Haus. He’s aware of what he’s doing now, even though a huge part of his brain is trying to get him to stop. He’s got habits, and if there is one thing he knows about himself, it’s that he has a hard time breaking habits. 

“Wanna come in for a while?” 

Eric hesitates a second longer than Jack’s pulse can stand. “Yeah, all right.” 

There’s no one downstairs when Jack unlocks the door, and he’s relieved. It feels a little like he’s sneaking Eric in, honestly. 

“You have a kitchen!” Eric says, as Jack ushers him past, towards the stairs. He’s not sure when his hand made it’s way to the small of Eric’s back, but it’s sitting there possessively now, and Eric’s not flinching away.

“Yeah. Do you cook?”

“Bake. Oh my god.” Eric peeks his head in and looks around. “That duffle you were carrying was full of my baking supplies.”

“I’m sure no one would mind if you wanted to bake here sometime,” Jack offers, starting back off towards the stairs. Eric lingers for a moment and then hurries to catch back up.

“Careful what you offer, Lau… Jack. I really love to bake!” Eric grins.

Jack’s heart feels like it weighs one hundred pounds, and he has no idea if it is because he really wants Eric to come back all the time, or he’s terrified of it. Either way, he needs them to get them upstairs, now. 

“I’ll show you my room, if you want.” Jack is sure Eric knows what he’s offering at this point. His hand is back in place, fingers sneaking under the edge of Eric’s t-shirt. 

Eric’s cheeks are bright pink. 

“Okay,” he says.

*

Jack starts kissing Eric the moment the door is closed behind them, just grabs him round the waist and pulls him in, and the big knot in his chest erodes, because _this_ he knows how to do. 

Eric lets out a little surprised huff of air, but then his hands come up and grab onto the front of Jack's shirt, and then Eric is kissing him back.

God, Jack wishes he could remember the first time they did this.

Eric seems to be really into kissing, and Jack lets himself get drawn into it. They just stand there in the middle of Jack’s room forever, Eric’s hands all over him, and his mouth warm and soft, with just the right amount of bite. 

Eric nips at Jack’s lower lip and whispers, “Oh lord.”

“You wanna stop?” Jack asks against the skin on Eric’s throat. 

“No, sir.” Eric pulls himself up against Jack and presses in with a hot, deep open-mouthed kiss that Jack almost can’t handle. 

They eventually migrate to the bed (unmade and a mess; Jack has the brief realization that the last person in his bed was the girl from the party last night [what was her name], but he shoves that thought away quickly) and Jack hauls Eric’s t-shirt off so he can get his lips on more skin. They are up on their knees, pressed in flush against each other, still kissing (God, Jack hasn’t kissed anyone like this for… well, ever). 

“I want to go down on you,” Jack whispers into Eric’s ear (habit, but also my he really wants to) and Eric’s whole body shivers under his hands. 

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Eric chirps, but his eyes are glazed and his body is pressed hard against Jack’s.

“Not all of them.” 

“Well, in that case…” 

Jack pulls off his own shirt before he works at loosening the buttons of Eric’s shorts and easing them down and to his knees. Eric is making little panting sounds, and Jack doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his head, and runs his tongue up the length of Eric’s dick (has he done this before? he doesn’t remember). Eric collapses back onto the pillows with a whine, and Jack follows, wrapping his arms around Eric’s ass so he can really nuzzle in and mouth at his balls, work his tongue around the head of his cock. Eric writhes under him and moans and grabs a handful of Jack’s hair. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe… I never thought this would… I used to imagine...” Eric can’t finish a thought. Jack lets himself set a slow, steady pace that seems to be driving Eric mad, if his stuttered sentences and groans and hair pulling are any indication. Jack’s entire body is electric, his dick hard against Eric’s leg.

Okay, fuck, Jack thinks. This is really fucking good. 

He brings Eric off slowly, working him over with his hand and tongue until Eric is arching off the bed and pouring into Jack’s mouth, amidst a stream of half-finished sentences.

They rest for a minute, breathing hard, Eric’s fingers tracing a maddening circle of fire on Jack’s chest. 

“Turn over,” Jack says, when he can’t stand it anymore. 

Eric’s face goes crimson, and his nails dig into Jack’s chest. He stutters out, “I don’t… want… I haven’t...”

Jack pulls in close to Eric’s ear and whispers, “Not that. I want to get off between your thighs. Can I?”

Eric swallows, eyes wide, and nods. Jack helps him up onto his knees, his sweet little ass right there for Jack to rub all over. Jack gets his shorts off and slicks himself up with lube (still not even capped from the night before, shit).

Damn, but they fit together perfectly when Jack gets his angle just right and starts working his dick in between Eric’s thick skater thighs. Jack can drape his whole self over Eric’s back, and mouth at the soft skin of his neck and shoulders, and Eric leans back into him like he wants them to just merge into one huge, sweaty mass of need. 

Jack’s had a lot of sex in the last few years, but holy hell. Not like this. 

When he finally comes, in long thrusts between slick, hot skin, Jack thinks this might be something else; not just sex, but maybe something more? He hasn’t let himself even think anything like that for a long, long time. 

They collapse together is a sticky heap in Jack’s already foul sheets, and Jack doesn’t even care. He could stay here forever.

*

“Lau… I mean, Jack? Lord, it’s hard to call you that. I’ve thought of you as Laurent all these years.” Eric is tucked into Jack’s arms, his head resting on Jack's shoulder, and it’s...really nice. 

“You thought of me, eh?” Jack smiles. His body is loose and relaxed, completely different from the come-down after any of the fifty-four previous, when he always just wants to get out. He has the radical thought that maybe he needs to start counting again from here.

“I thought about you a lot, honey.” Eric looks up at him, but he’s not smiling. In fact, he looks deadly serious. “I’d never… been with anyone before, and god, the things you said. I just…” 

Eric lays his cheek down against Jack’s chest, so Jack feels the next words as vibrations in his core. “I just never really stopped looking for you.”

“Oh.” Jack’s sure Eric can feel his heart thumping under his cheek. 

Eric looks up at Jack then, his brows down together, his chin resting on Jack's ribs. “You all right?”

Oh god. “What did I say?”

“Huh?”

“The _things I said_. What did I say?”

Jack watches the moment start to fall apart, right in front of him. Eric pulls his lips in tight and gets this look that Jack can only describe as _wounded_. “You...don’t remember?”

Jack shakes his head. “I was pretty fucked up back then. I don’t even know for sure what I was on that night. I’m so sorry. I remember thinking you were gorgeous and I remember kissing you, but the rest is… gone.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You were high?”

Jack nods.

Eric sits up then, nestled in the sheets, naked and beautiful in the sunlight streaming in Jack’s window, his face like stone. 

“So, if you don’t remember, what did you think when you first saw me today?”

Jack swallows. “I thought… I remembered you were… a good thing on a bad day?”

It’s obvious immediately that this is not the answer Eric was hoping for. He sits back on his heels so that no part of him is touching Jack anymore, not even his knees, and stares around at his surroundings, like he’s just waking up. 

Jack pulls himself up, seeing his own room through Eric’s eyes: pile of condoms and open condom wrappers on the nightstand next to an open bottle of lube, someone’s abandoned bra peeking out from under the tower of laundry on his desk chair, a couple of half empty Solo cups (not his, but Eric wouldn’t know that), nothing on the walls (because what would he care about enough to hang up?), pile of hockey gear in the corner. 

Eric takes it all in, and then he closes his eyes. “So back then… you didn’t mean anything you said.”

Jack’s heart aches, because Eric’s voice is already like a brick wall. “Or I really meant every word. I just don't know.”

It’s a long moment, and Jack hardly breathes through it, but Eric eventually opens his eyes and just shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It was no big thing.”

It’s such an obvious lie, Jack can’t move.

Eric efficiently hops up from the bed, scrounging through the sheets for his discarded clothing, very obviously avoiding touching Jack.

“Well, thanks, hon. This was fun,” he says, his voice distant, as he tugs on his underwear and t-shirt. Jack just watches, waiting. He knows what’s coming. He doesn’t have to wait long. “But I guess we’d better not do this again.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, good lord, Eric.” He’s mostly muttering to himself, pulling on his shorts, combing his fingers through his hair. 

Jack looks at his clock. It’s one-thirty. He’s managed to blow his own life wide open and it’s only the early afternoon.

At the doorway, Eric hesitates. He doesn’t look back, just says, “Hey Jack?”

Jack’s heart has the nerve to get hopeful for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Back in Vancouver, you said you would write down your number for me, but in the morning, I couldn't find it anywhere.”

Shit. Jack closes his eyes.

“Don’t do that to anyone else? Okay?”

And then he’s out the door, and gone.

*

When he can finally bring himself to get out of bed, Jack takes a hot, long shower, and then spends the afternoon scouring his room clean. He strips the sheets, sorts out the mess of clothes and gear and runs everything down to the washer in the basement. His nightstand he empties into the garbage, and then wipes it down with bleach. With a rag and a bucket of soapy water, Jack _scrubs_ , every corner. He thinks maybe later he should go out and buy a poster for his wall.

When he heads down to shift his laundry to the dryer, Shitty is in the living room, working out something in a menu on the TV. 

“Jackie, my bro! Lardo and I saw some dude dart out of here earlier like he was on fire? Everything okay?”

Jack looks at Shitty, his _friend_ , who honestly seems to love him, who’s always trying to help him to be a better person, and he just can’t find a lie today. “No. Not really,” he says, his voice a little raw.

“Oh shit, brah.” Shitty sits up, and the sincere concern on his face almost makes Jack tear up. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Shitty looks at him consideringly for a moment, then moves over on the couch. “Gotcha. In that case, wanna have a seat and take in the beauty of a classic Hong Kong martial arts masterpiece with me?”

“Which one?”

“ _Five Deadly Venoms_?”

Jack manages a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

Shitty holds out an arm and Jack sits down into it. Shitty doesn’t say anything when, once the movie starts, Jack leans his head against his shoulder, or even when he must be able to feel the growing wet spot on his t-shirt sleeve from the steady flow of tears that Jack doesn’t even try to control. 

*

When he retreats back to his room after the movie, Jack checks his phone, but there’s nothing there. Eric doesn’t have his number, of course, so it’s a meaningless exercise. Instead, Jack scrolls through his saved texts to one he’s looked at hundreds of times in the past few years, the last words in a long story.

 **Parse** _I guess I thought you could do better than just never text me back, asshole._

Jack closes his texts, and then calls up his contacts. She picks up on the first ring. 

“Maman?” He can barely get the word out, his breath is so shallow.

“Jack, honey! How are you?”

Jack knows she cannot see him struggling to get a breath in just to be able to speak. “I don’t think I’m… I think I might need some help.”

His mother’s voice cracks as she says, “Oh, honey.”

His parents are on their way to the airport before they end the call. 

*

A week later (a week of family, and doctors and therapists, and realizing how little he’s actually ever recovered), Jack sees Eric walking along the river with Joel and another guy. He raises his hand in greeting as they pass, and Eric smiles and waves back, but then just keeps walking. 

Later, a number of times, Jack thinks he sees the glint of Eric’s golden hair up in the stands at hockey games, but he’s never able to tell for sure. Eric’s never waiting for him after the game, even though Jack always looks, and the oven in the Haus kitchen remains cold and unused.

*


	3. thirty-one

*

Jack Zimmermann is thirty-one years old. He’s a professional athlete in the National Hockey League- a core member of the Providence Falconers for seven seasons. They’ve made it to the Eastern Conference Finals twice, but the Cup still eludes them, although Jack’s found he doesn’t crave that goal as intensely as he once did. Now, he’s just happy to have made it through another season without a career ending injury, without being traded across the country. 

He still loves hockey, deep down in his bones, the soothing, blank calm of the ice, knowing exactly who he is when he skates. He doesn’t take it for granted.

For nine years, Jack has met with his therapist twice a week (remotely during the season), taken his daily meds to control his anxiety, and checked in with his parents and Shitty at least once a week. He’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than a month, but over the years he’s realized that just works better for him. He has his own space, his own routine, his friends, his teammates. It’s good.

He has it down, finally, after so many false starts. Life.

*

Jack stops at a gas station halfway up to Samwell. He has a text waiting.

 **Parse** _Did you watch Game 5? Didja?_

Jack smiles and rolls his eyes. Kenny’s in the playoffs for the fifth straight season, and he won’t let Jack hear the end of it.

 **Jack** _Yep._

 **Parse** _Sweet goal, right? I’m just saying. Highlight reel shit, you know._

 **Jack** _Yes, yes. You are very good at hockey._

 **Parse** _Why thank you, Jack._

 **Jack** _Rest up, pretty boy. Game 6 won’t be so easy._

 **Parse** _Ass._

Jack grins, and pockets his phone. 

He fills the big tank of his SUV, and enjoys the perfect warmth of the May morning. He’s on his way up for alumni weekend at Samwell. His coach, Chris Hall, is finally retiring, and the program is holding a huge celebration in honor of his twenty-five years. Seven of Coach Hall’s former students have made it to the show, and all of them, Jack included, are coming in for the event. 

Even though he lives a short drive away, Jack hasn’t been back to campus for years. So much weighty memory is wrapped up in that place. It’s where he hit the ground hard and then finally figured out how to actually get back up again. 

He caps his gas tank and goes into the mini-mart for a snack. 

The guy at the counter stares at him the entire time he’s looking around, and when he goes to pay, the guy says, “Hell of a season, Zimmermann. Sorry about the playoffs.”

“Thanks,” Jack replies with a nod, and ducks out before anyone else recognizes him. 

*

Shitty and Lardo meet him in front of the library, as they planned, each pulling him into a big hug. 

“You fucking beautiful specimen of humanity,” Shitty says as greeting, and Jack snorts. 

Lardo punches him in the shoulder and says, “Weak-ass showing in those last five games, Zimmermann. Need me to come down and kick your butt into shape this summer, or what?”

Lardo, who'd managed his Samwell team for three seasons back in school, is no joke. Jack thinks maybe he should take her up on the offer; he has been a bit more slack in his off-season training for the last few summers. 

She and Shitty have been living together in Boston for six years now. Jack tries to see them at least once a month, even during the season. He knows they are one of the biggest contributors to his stability over the years, although he's never said that to either of them directly. He likes to think that they just know.

Jack slings an arm around Lardo’s shoulders and says, “You know I could never handle your level of intensity, Lards.”

“Yeah, fair point,” Lardo replies, with a wicked little grin.

Shitty huffs. “Dude, you have no fucking idea.”

Lardo gives Shitty the side-eye and says, “Heads-up, Zimmermann. This asshole is planning to try and hook you up this weekend.” 

“Shitty…”

Shitty waves Jack off. “No need to thank me, brah. This sitch is perfect for a Zimmerfling. Bunch of horny, lonely alums on the loose in Samwell, Massachusetts for a weekend of debauchery and bad decisions?”

“Ah. Is that what alumni weekend is like?” Jack asks.

“It will be this time,” Shitty announces, and then he runs up ahead of Jack and Lardo, screaming, “ _Alumni! Reuniting!_ ” 

“He’s gonna strip off his shirt soon, isn’t he?” Jack says.

“Only his shirt if we’re lucky,” Lardo replies, and Jack is really glad that he decided to come.

*

Faber is set up for the farewell speeches, with carpets and chairs and a podium in the center of the rink. Jack, Shitty, and Lardo meet up with a few more members of the old team outside the arena (Holster, Ransom, and Nursey, who all drove up together from New York). 

Jack gets thoroughly chirped by everyone for his availability (Holster: “I know you love Coach Hall, Jack, but you didn’t need to throw the Falconers season just so you could be here.”) Jack takes it in stride, although it stings a little. He knows this was not his best season, not even close.

He has to sit up front with the other pros, and they stand at one point and present Coach Hall a plaque for his years of service. Jack has begged off actually having to say anything publicly, but he’s able to give Coach Hall a sincere hug and a whispered thank you. The man had saved him, given him a home when he thought he’d lost hockey forever. A plaque hardly seems to cover it.

His therapist had warned him that this event might dredge up some old stuff for him, although he’d been skeptical. (Just a retirement party, right?) Jack feels memories clawing in, though, so he counts his breaths, and focuses on the next speaker.

*

Jack first sees the golden hair at a distance, through the big crowd, as Coach Hall’s ceremony is ending. He assumes it’s just sense memory and wishful thinking messing with him. 

He can’t pretend that being back at Samwell hasn’t made him think about Eric. If he’s honest, he thinks about Eric more than he thinks about anyone else he’s ever been with, but it’s all so far in the past now, it’s more like a story he tells himself rather than an actual memory anymore. 

He catches another glimpse of bright blond hair, up ahead, as he wanders out to the soccer fields with his old teammates, cursing at his brain for making him hope. Tents have been set up, and there is food and drinks, and most of the crowd from inside seems to be staying to enjoy the picnic as well. Jack tries not to rudely scan the crowd as he catches up with Kastner (fourth year with the Flames, looking good for a playoff run next season) and Ransom (starting his own practice, two kids now), but he feels his gaze drift repeatedly. He doesn’t locate the blond head in the crowd again. 

After an hour, Jack can feel the strain of so much socializing and such a big crowd (and selfies with so many fans) plucking at his anxiety. He grabs a plate of food and a seltzer and gives himself a break at a table in the unoccupied back corner of the tent. 

He’s amusing himself watching Shitty animatedly talking at a group of grey-haired alums out on the field (who look more and more uncomfortable with each of Shitty’s expansive hand gestures) so he misses the fact that someone has approached his table until they clear their throat right next to him. 

“Laurent, right?”

The long drawn-out vowels and the gentle teasing tone, and Jack’s heart is already in his throat before he even looks up. 

It’s Eric. It’s actually him. He looks older, his face thinned out, shoulders wider, body with a little more heft than Jack remembers. His hair is clipped short on the sides and carefully styled on top, but it’s still the same bright gold it was the last time Jack’s fingers were tangled up in it. 

Jack swallows, and feels his own face heat with memory (he’ll call Dr. Masseret later and tell her how right she was). “You can call me Jack.”

Eric’s eyebrows raise, and he gets a little sideways grin. “Jack it is. You mind if I sit?”

Jack shakes his head, and Eric pulls out a chair a few seats away, leaving a big, empty _something_ between them that makes Jack’s skin itch. He pokes at his plate of food and tries to think of something appropriate to say. 

“It’s my five-year reunion,” Eric offers. Jack would be lying if he said he hadn’t figured that out weeks ago.

“You know you are at a hockey event?” Jack asks, to say something.

Eric rolls his eyes at him. “Yes, I am aware.”

“Oh. Good.”

Eric’s heels are tapping rapidly on the grass. “So, how are you, Jack? Pro athlete and all? Are you… doing okay?”

Jack knows there’s a hundred questions wrapped up in Eric’s stuttered words. He doesn’t have a clue how to answer. “Yeah. I’m… better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Jack stares curiously at Eric (god he looks good, mature and confident; it’s overwhelming) and then Jack just lets himself start talking (what the fuck does he have to lose). 

“So does you being here mean you were a closet Samwell hockey fan for years?”

Eric’s hand darts out and he grabs a piece of cheese from Jack’s plate. “Yes, it does.”

Jack’s heart stutters. “It does?”

“I went to a lot of hockey games, honey. Pretty much… all of them, actually.” Eric’s cheeks are a little pink now. 

Jack can’t breathe, can’t maintain the chirpy, light tone he’d managed so far. Instead, he hears his voice crack as he blurts, “You did?”

Eric grabs another piece of cheese, “Mmm-hmm.”

“ _Crisse._ ” Jack wants to reach out a hand to touch Eric somewhere- knee, shoulder, hand, it doesn’t matter. “I used to look for you, up in the stands.”

Now it’s Eric’s turn for his voice to shift, deeper and more serious. “Oh lord. Did you?”

“Eric…” Jack starts, suddenly so full of words and apologies that he can’t hardly breathe. “Eric…”

Just then, a handsome man in a grey suit strides up behind Eric and puts a hand onto his shoulder, possessive and familiar, and Jack feels himself shrink back like he’s been hit.

“Hey, babe. Who’s this?” the man asks, eyes on Jack.

Eric, for his part, looks just as blindsided as Jack feels. He turns his flushed gaze up to the man behind him and stutters, “Hey, hon… hey. This is my old… friend… Jack Zimmermann. Jack, this is my… boyfriend, Deshi.”

Jack hopes neither of them can actually see that he’s shaking. “Good to meet you,” he says, and Deshi nods back at him. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but Bitty, babe, aren’t we supposed to meet up with Joel in twenty minutes over on the Quad?” 

“Yeah,” Eric says, real quiet, eyes fixed away from Jack. “But can I have a minute? We were just catchin’ up. I’ll meet you by the drinks table, honey.”

Deshi looks back and forth between Jack and Eric for a minute, and Jack’s brain has the audacity to wonder what Eric is going to tell him later about who he is and what they were talking about. “Okay. I’ll just get another glass of wine and meet you over there.”

“Perfect, sweetheart,” Eric says, and Jack isn’t sure if he can even feel his feet for the moment.

Deshi wanders off, and it’s quiet. Jack can’t look away from Eric and Eric is looking everywhere but at him. 

Finally, Jack clears his throat. “Can I at least give you my number this time?” he asks, because worse than Deshi, worse than _boyfriend_ , is the thought that this might be it, and he’ll never have this chance again. 

Eric looks up at him, his eyes wide, and Jack can’t even be angry about the whole situation. He’s so tired and sad. Just when he thinks he’s getting away, the past chases him down and hooks him around the ankles again.

“Please, Jack. Here…” Eric digs his phone out of his pocket and passes it to Jack. Jack taps in his number and name ( _Jack Laurent_ just in case) and hands it back. 

“You’d better go catch up.” Jack pushes himself up from the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Shitty has noticed him talking to Eric, and is flashing him the thumbs up sign from out on the grass. Shit. 

“Jack…”

“Just… just text me sometime. If you want to.” Jack can’t think of anything else to do except turn and walk away.

*

A minute later, Jack’s phone buzzes. 

**unknown number** _I want to._

Jack’s heart really doesn’t know what to do with that.

*

“When I said I hoped you would hook up this weekend, brah, I meant a fun between-the-sheets frolic with a stranger, not some gothic melodrama of lost love and boyfriends named _Deshi_.”

“Shut up, Shitty.” Lardo leans in over Jack’s phone. 

They are crowded at a tiny table at the back of the new cafe where Jerry’s used to be. Jack has explained as much of the story as he can bring himself to (which is not much, honestly) after Lardo called him out on his thundercloud mood after the picnic.

“He wants you to text him back, Zimmermann.” They've been staring at Eric's text for ten minutes now. “Trust me.”

“He has a boyfriend.”

“And so can you, if you text him back,” Shitty adds, thumping Jack on the back.

“Shitty,” Jack snaps (because honestly), “I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m too old for this sort of thing. I can’t.”

Lardo pulls her face into a skeptical grimace. “Whoa, now. Are you claiming you used to get into romantic adventures when you _were_ a teenager?”

“No.”

“So this is your shot, bro.”

Jack reclaims his phone and stares at Eric’s text again. Whatever else this might be, it feels like a second chance.

*

Shitty and Lardo head over to North Quad for some sort of campus scavenger hunt activity that Jack has no interest in joining. He’s heart-hurt and tense, so instead, he retreats to his SUV and locks himself in, still staring at his phone. 

“This is your shot, bro,” he whispers to himself, and starts typing. 

**Jack** _This might take a minute, but I’d like to tell you something._

 **Jack** _I’ve been in therapy for nine years, and in all of that time I’ve figured out a lot of things_

 **Jack** _like how terribly I used to treat people so that I didn’t have to face my own issues and how for years I used sex as a replacement for drugs or mental health treatment._

 **Jack** _And you are one of those people that I hurt, and I'm so sorry._

 **Jack** _I mean it when I say I’m better now. I am better._

 **Jack** _It’s not fair to you, what I’m about to say, because you have a boyfriend_

 **Jack** _but before he came over I was going to ask you to have dinner with me tonight_

 **Jack** _because I know we don't know each other, really at all_

 **Jack** _but I’ve figured out a lot of stuff about myself because of you_

 **Jack** _you always come into my life at a pivotal moment, and that must mean something. Or at least I want to know if it means something_

 **Jack** _so I’m not asking you on a date. But if you’re ever single again, maybe look me up?_

Jack stops texting for a minute, trying to decide if he's finished. He’s not.

 **Jack** _You have my number._

Jack lets his phone drop into his lap, closes his eyes, and sits back to wait.

*

Jack stops looking at his watch after an hour. Sometime in the second hour of waiting, he closes his eyes (his body can’t stay keyed up for this long without eventually just shutting down). His text alert startles him awake. He looks at the clock on his dashboard. It’s been almost three hours since he sent his messages.

Text alert. Jack’s heart thumps in his chest.

He holds his phone and in the few short seconds before opening his texts, convinces himself that it will be just be Lardo or Shitty checking on him. So he’s not prepared to see Eric’s name pop up, even though that’s precisely what he’s been waiting for.

 **Eric** _Where are you?_

That’s it. But it’s not rejection.

 **Jack** _I’m sitting in my car over by the chem building._

 **Eric** _Don’t leave. What does your car look like?_

Oh god. 

**Jack** _It’s a silver Land Rover._

 **Eric** _Give me five minutes._

Jack stares at his phone and can’t think of any other interpretation except that Eric is coming to find him, but that seems so unlikely that he can’t breathe. He desperately wants Lardo there to tell him if he’s right, or just setting himself up.

 **Jack** _Okay._

It’s a very long five minutes (actually, it's nine minutes- Jack’s eyes never leave the clock on the dash) and then Eric is at the passenger side door, knocking on the window. 

Jack has never been great at reading people’s faces, and that is definitely true now; Eric’s expression isn’t giving anything away. Jack pops open the locks, and Eric just steps up into the passenger seat and shuts the door. 

Jack swallows. “Hey.”

Eric isn’t looking at him. He’s staring out the front windshield as if they are driving somewhere and he’s watching for an exit sign. 

“So,” he starts, and his voice is crisp and businesslike, “you got your say, so let me just talk now. For a minute?”

Jack nods, but it’s hard to tell if Eric even sees him.

Eric inhales, deep, and then speaks. “When I was seventeen, amongst other things, you told me that I was the sort of person you hoped you would spend the rest of your life with. That’s what you said.”

Jack’s heart stops. “Oh.”

“Honey, you don’t say that kind of shit to a closeted gay boy whose dick you just sucked without that making one hell of an impression.”

Jack’s voice hardly comes. “Eric, I’m so sorr…”

Eric raises his hand to silence him. “Uh-uh, not your turn yet, Jack Laurent. There’s more to say.” 

He clears his throat and starts again. “So it turns out you didn’t mean it, and don’t even remember saying it. I learned to accept that years ago. But hooking up with you in Vancouver, realizing how much I wanted what you told me to be true? That’s the first moment I started accepting any damn thing about myself, honey. And then later, in college, when I was tryin’ to get over you, that’s when I finally got myself out there into the world to date and mess around and fuck up and all that. Find gay friends and a community and people who had my back. And Jack, honey, those are no small things in my life.”

Eric stops for a moment, like he’s run out of air, and finally looks over at Jack. Jack flashes back to his first memory of meeting him, scared as hell and hiding down a dead end, and thinks that maybe the only thing that hasn't changed about him is his eyes. Jack wonders if maybe someday Eric might tell him what parts of Jack he still recognizes from that wounded kid he’d been back then, and what is all new.

Oh fuck. It’s too hard. Jack needs to get this over with, like ripping off a bandage, like setting a bone. One, two, three, go. “Was that when you met Deshi?”

“Deshi?”

“Deshi, your boyfriend?”

Eric’s face crinkles up in surprise. “Oh lord no, Jack. Deshi? We’ve only been dating a couple months. I didn’t want to come to my reunion on my own. But I just sent him on home. He’s not...”

The dam in Jack breaks wide open and he drops his face into his hands to catch the first choked sound that escapes. 

“Jack?”

“I’m okay,” Jack gasps out into his hands. “It’s just a lot.”

“Lord, I know. I just broke up with the guy I’ve been dating for two months after talking to you for five minutes, Jack Laurent Zimmermann.”

Jack can’t get his hands away from his face, or stop his shoulders shaking. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

“Hey. I know I don’t have to.” Eric’s fingers wrap around Jack’s wrists and gently pull his hands down. Jack’s breathing is ragged and fast, but Eric is touching him, looking at him with big brown eyes that don’t seem angry or judgmental, but instead are maybe just a little… amused.

“Jack, sweetheart, I’ve been in love with the _idea_ of you for twelve fucking years. I can’t promise anything, but there ain't no power on god’s green earth that will stop me from finding out if I like the real you even half so much, now that we’re both ready.” 

Jack adjusts himself around in his seat so that he’s facing Eric, as if maybe that will make the words more real, less like a dream.

“So if your offer still stands, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight, Jack. What do you think?” 

Eric’s head is tilted down, and his eyes are so clear and open. 

Jack’s too overwhelmed for anything other than honesty. “I think you are the only person I’ve ever even _thought_ I might fall in love with.” 

“Oh lord.” Eric leans in then, without hesitation, and when their lips meet, soft and gentle, Jack’s body finally quiets down, and lets him feel it. 

It’s a chaste, closed mouth kiss, just a few touches and then Eric pulls away. “That takes care of that,” he says in a whisper. 

“I think I might be really bad at relationships,” Jack confesses.

Eric’s expression is priceless. “Oh, you don’t say?”

Jack actually laughs a little, and then asks, “Are you hungry?” Eric is still holding his wrists, and Jack really doesn’t want him to let go. 

“Starving,” Eric says. 

*

 **Jack** _I’m busy for dinner._

 **Shitty** _This better be code for you getting laid._

 **Jack** _See you tomorrow._

 **Shitty** _OH SHIT. IT IS._

*

It’s hours later. Jack hasn’t actually been on that many dates in his life, not real ones with dinner and dessert and a long walk afterwards and holding hands next to the river where no one can see them and then making out for ages. He doesn’t have a lot to compare to, but he thinks this is probably a really great date. Eric is just as funny and open and easy to talk to as Jack remembers. 

After a few hours, Jack feels like he could probably identify Eric’s core group of friends at thirty paces, he’s learned so much about them. Eric tells him about his own long journey through therapy, dealing with his identity and fear of abandonment and the loss of skating.

But Jack talks, too. It’s weird how, even though they hardly know each other, Eric knows all about some of Jack’s darkest times, and he doesn’t shy away from asking about any of it. He asks about Jack’s meds, about whether he drinks at all anymore, about Jack’s dad. Jack tells him more about what happened after they were together in college- the intense breakdown and then the slow rebuilding of himself over the next two years. 

He tells Eric things he’s never even told Shitty, like the terrifying nights secretly cruising gay bars in Boston, before anyone knew he was bi, or the fact that he knows his body is giving out soon, and that he’s frozen in terror at what his life will be like when he doesn’t have hockey anymore. 

It’s not like starting over, Jack thinks. It’s more like mending breaks and filling gaps to make something whole.

It starts to get late.

“I was supposed to drive home to Providence hours ago,” Jack says. He’s sitting up against a tree trunk, looking out at the river, Eric tucked in between his legs and leaning into his chest. Jack thinks he could maybe sit like this forever.

“You’re not staying in Samwell?” Eric cranes around a little to look up at Jack, and Jack really likes the gentle rub of Eric’s body against his own.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. It’s not a long drive.”

“You could stay up here with me. I have a room. By myself now.”

Eric says it so fast and so casually that Jack almost dismisses it. But then Eric keeps talking. “I mean, I know we should take things slow, and I’m being impulsive. But also, no, I’m not being impulsive, because… twelve fucking years, Jack.”

“Well, technically it’s only been nine years since we last had sex,” Jack adds. 

Eric reaches over his shoulder and whacks him on the arm, mutters _'only'_ under his breath. “Are you staying, or what?”

Jack leans his head back. His thinking has stayed clear all night, no muddled confusion, no panic. He doesn’t panic now. Everything still just feels… right.

“I guess it might be nice to not have to drive up again tomorrow.” 

Eric whacks him again, and then pulls himself around so that he can press a deep kiss into Jack's lips. “We're you always this sassy, mister?”

Jack shrugs. Eric rolls his eyes and kisses him again. 

*

Eric’s staying at one of the little hotels in Samwell, where Jack is almost certain he will be recognized. So, he waits at a quiet side entrance until Eric comes down and sneaks him up to his room. 

_Like teenagers_ , Jack thinks. Lardo’s gonna give him hell later. 

Eric leads the way, pulling Jack along by the hand until they reach the room, shutting and locking the door behind them, and then tugging Jack close and into a deep kiss.

“We really don’t have to,” Jack whispers against Eric’s lips.

Jack can feel Eric’s smile in return. “I know. But sleeping together on the first date. It’s kind of our thing, right?”

Eric leans into the kiss again and Jack kisses him back, hungry, his entire body riled and electric, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

After a minute, Jack breaks the kiss, breathless, edging close to something that makes his skin itch. “ _Our thing_ doesn't have a great track record so far, though,” he says, because he has to, because his heart won’t let him mess this up again. 

Eric pulls back for a minute and the room gets quiet and still. Eric looks at Jack, his eyes soft with concern. “Jack, honey, are you worried that I don’t want to be here?”

Jack tries to listen to his own thoughts for a minute, in the silence, hear the reasons for his own heartbeat. 

“I think I’ll worry about that for a while,” he says at last.

Eric’s hands rub reassurance up and down Jack’s arms, from wrist to shoulder. “I want to be here, Jack,” he says. “I really want to. But, sweetheart, are you sure that you do?”

Jack lets his fingers drift into Eric’s hair. He thinks about the long road that’s led him here, to a point where the sweat on his skin and the rapid beating of his heart isn’t something to fear, but instead is only nerves and pleasure and maybe, if he’s lucky, love.

“God, yes,” Jack breathes. “I want to.”

“Okay. So we are both here,” Eric says, eyes bright, a little smile curling the edges of his lips. “Good.” He pulls himself up onto his toes, cupping Jack's jaw with his hands, and dots Jack’s face and neck with light, brushing kisses that shoot sparks across his skin.

Jack lets his hands drift down to Eric’s waist and sneak up under his shirt to touch the smooth expanse of skin on his back. Eric nuzzles into the curve of Jack’s shoulder, his mouth trailing hot paths of kisses along his collarbone and throat. 

They’ve slept together twice, long ago, and Jack can feel the weight of those memories pressing against him. A part of him wants to cry at the familiarity of the lines of Eric’s chest and hips; another part knows that this is all brand fucking new. It’s like remembering a dream as the dream is actually happening.

Jack thinks he could kiss Eric forever. This is not the first time he’s thought that.

“What do you want?” Jack needs to know, a while later, when the room has filled up with the heat between them and it's hard to breathe. Eric is taking his agonizing time with the buttons on Jack’s jeans, and Jack’s hands are far down the back of Eric’s shorts. 

Eric pulls Jack down with him onto the bed, then, and kisses him, open-mouthed and dirty. Jack’s whole body surges up at the onslaught. 

Eric speaks right into Jack’s skin. “I want it all, Jack Laurent. I want to touch every part of your body. I want to strip you naked and make you come and I want to come all over you...”

Jack groans, and flips Eric over onto his back so he can press on top on him and smother him with a kiss. But Eric pushes Jack back a few inches; he’s not finished. 

“And then I want to watch you play hockey, honey, and meet your parents, and bake you a ginger pear pie, and introduce you to my friends…”

Jack pounces on Eric then, and Eric huffs out a protest and a laugh and wrestles back, until they are tangled up and kissing and pulling off the last of their clothes. Jack’s hands and lips can’t find enough skin.

 _This is the person I might want to spend the rest of my life with_ , Jack’s brain announces, before it completely gives in to Eric’s ministrations. Although this time, his brain is wise enough to keep that thought to itself for now. 

Jack considers that his nineteen-year-old self might not have been such an idiot after all. 

*

Later, they’re lying in this borrowed bed, and Jack’s dizzy with the feeling of Eric’s skin, still electric and sticky against his own.

“Do you think this is all gonna work out, honey?” Eric asks, so quiet.

“I don’t know,” Jack says, because he doesn’t, but for once he’s not too scared about not knowing. “I do know I’m still going to be here in the morning.”

“So am I.” Eric burrows his head a little further into Jack’s shoulder, where he fits just right. 

“So,” Jack says, letting his fingers linger against Eric’s hip, so soft. “That’s a start.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://omgcpheartbreakfest.tumblr.com/) on the omgcpheartbreakfest tumblr page!


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